


Xmas In Sussex

by mydogwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Xmas johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:56:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2773769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sherlock take on the classic film Christmas in Connecticut.  With guns.  And sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Xmas In Sussex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilentAuror](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/gifts).



> I had this idea and it seemed perfect to offer up to all of you who have read, sent kudos, and commented on my stories in 2014. You will never know what it means to me that you enjoy these stories that I love to write so much. So thanks.
> 
> I also want to gift this holiday tale to SilentAuror, who has helped me get through this year with her wonderful fix-it fics. I needed---and still need!---them.
> 
> Finally, I appreciate all of your patience waiting for my long AU. See the end notes for more.

[Ten Years Ago]

 

It was either early morning or early evening, judging by the pale grey light leaking in through the ripped and filthy blind that covered the only window in the room. Had he cared to, Sherlock knew that he could analyse the particular greyness of the light and deduce the exact hour. Had he cared to.

He did not care.

The high from last night’s cocaine had worn off and now he was only achy and slightly nauseous. He wanted to sleep some more. Or he wanted tea. One or the other. But instead, he rolled over on the thin mattress and reached for the only palliative available at the moment, his cigarettes. A blast of nicotine would help, because it always did.

He was just igniting his second Mayfair, the first having fallen short of soothing his jagged edges, when he heard the downstairs door crash open, followed by thundering footsteps approaching his room. Cheap cop shoes had their own sound, so there was no mistaking who it was: Lestrade. No doubt desperate for help again, because there was no way he would climb the ranks depending solely upon his own meager skills.

Sherlock smirked, but then an uneasy thought niggled its way through the funk clouding his mind. Hadn’t he been meant to call Lestrade? To tell him…something?

What that something was came to him at the same moment the police sergeant burst in.

The hidden room.

Sherlock had realised almost immediately that the dimensions of the attic, as provided by the newly minted detective, were just slightly off and from that it was easy to know that there had to be a hidden room. He’d intended to call Lestrade and tell him about it so that they could capture the kidnapper and save the child.

But he had decided, justifiably he thought, to celebrate his triumph a little before reaching for the phone. And now here he was, blearily peering up at Lestrade, who seemed…angry. “Oh,” Sherlock said. “Sorry. I meant to call. To tell you about the hidden room, but…”

Lestrade stared at him. “You knew? You knew there was a fucking hidden room?”

“Well, of course. It was obvious to anyone with half a brain,” Sherlock snapped, eager to hide his embarrassment at the oversight.

Lestrade seemed to go a little pale and his body slumped against the door. “Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Well, now that you know---”

“It’s too late, you bastard. A copper and the kid are dead.” The words were hollow.

Sherlock felt the air leave his body and he practically collapsed into the mattress. “What?” he whispered.

“A copper and the kid. Dead. Because you didn’t call. You didn’t tell me. They’re dead, Sherlock, because you wanted to stick a needle in your fucking arm more than you wanted to solve this case.”

“I’m sorry…” The unfamiliar words came from his mouth stiffly.

There was a long silence in the room.

Finally Lestrade straightened. “No one knows your name,” he said quietly. “Or that you have assisted me on several cases. I will keep you out of it. They will never know that we might have saved the little girl. Might not have lost a good copper. No one will ever hear the name Sherlock Holmes from me. But never come around again. I don’t want to see you or think of you. Stick the needle in your vein all you like. No one will care.”

With that, Lestrade turned and left much more quietly than he arrived.

Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest and desperately tried to regain his place in the universe. He was still sitting there hours later when Mycroft walked into the room.

******

Anthea was so devoted to her duties that once a year, when she wanted to spend some of her workday helping one charity or another for the holidays, Mycroft did not begrudge her the time. One year she had raised funds for the polar bears. Another time it was to help third world babies have their inoculations. Mycroft never asked her how she chose the causes she helped, but he always wrote a sizable cheque.

This particular morning, as he sipped tea and read the overnight reports on the Korean elections, Anthea appeared in the doorway, holding a sheet of paper in one hand and what appeared to a file folder in the other. “Sir?” she said.

“Yes, my dear?” he murmured somewhat absently.

She came into his office and took her usual chair in front of his desk. “My charity this year,” she said, “is helping injured soldiers.”

“Helping them how?”

She smiled, quietly pleased to have his full attention. “By granting a holiday wish. Several hundred wrote letters, asking for something that would make their Christmas brighter, and we are trying to make as many as possible come true.”

“Commendable,” Mycroft said, reaching for his chequebook.

Anthea shook her head. “No, I’m not asking for money this time.” She held out the paper. “If you would read this and then let me know what you think?’

“Yes, of course.” He took it from her.

Then she set the file folder down on the desk. “After you read the letter, you might want to look at this.”

He nodded and Anthea left the office.

Mycroft lifted his teacup again and began to read.

//Hello,

My name is John Watson. I was a combat surgeon in Afghanistan until a serious injury forced me out of the military. At the moment, I am living in a bedsit, attending both physical and psychological therapy and wondering what to do with the rest of my life. I would not be writing to you, except that I have a sister who has nagged me into it. There are others far more deserving of your good efforts than I and my so-called ‘wish’ is really rather silly in the scheme of things. But…as I lay in hospital and now as I try to regain a life, one of my few pleasures has been reading the wonderful mystery books by William S. Scott. I understand that the author is quite a recluse who never appears in public. Because of that, I know this is an impossible wish [which is probably why I am asking for it!], but I would love the opportunity to meet Mr. Scott, shake his hand, and thank him for creating the stories that have helped me through this difficult time. That’s it. Thank you for at least taking the time to read this letter.//

Mycroft set the letter down and slowly finished his tea as he read the file on Watson. Not just a wounded soldier, it seemed, but a genuine hero who had risked his life to treat a wounded colleague. Even more interesting was that fact that by reading between the lines of the dry report, Mycroft was also able to see that Watson had been more than simply a doctor in Afghanistan. There was the definite suggestion of several clandestine missions, which Mycroft was determined to look into more closely as soon as possible. Then he reached for his phone.

**

Only one person ever rang him, so without even glancing at the screen, Sherlock knew who was interrupting his work time. He was tempted to ignore the call, but Mycroft only made contact when it was important and Mummy had not been feeling very well just lately.

So Sherlock picked up the mobile. “What?” he said sharply. “I’m working.”

“And I humbly apologise for interrupting the creative flow,” Mycroft replied. “But this is important.”

“I doubt that.” Sherlock looked at the computer screen again, rereading the last sentence he’d written. His hero was closing in on the blackmailer, while the hapless police were still chasing their own tails.

“If I am correct,” Mycroft said, not quite pointing out that he always was, “you have grown weary of taking on those little jobs I sometimes bring to you.”

Sherlock did not sigh, because his brother loved to make him sigh. “Ah, yes, my decade of indentured servitude.”

“Indentured servitude?” Mycroft demurred. “I prefer to think of it as fraternal gratitude.”

It was their usual exchange and, also as usual, neither of them mentioned the circumstances that had spawned their ten-year pact, namely Mycroft pulling his brother out of the drug-strewn hovel in which the life he’d wanted had forever ended and then setting him on the path that lead him to drug rehab and then to this cottage in Sussex.

“What is it this time? Please, not another double agent in need of tracking down. I am in the middle of a novel and the publisher is impatient.”

“Not a double agent,” Mycroft assured him. “And you will not even have to leave your fortress.”

“Get on with it, then.”

Mycroft began to talk, something ridiculous about a charity, a wish, an injured soldier. Sherlock started sputtering almost immediately, but his brother just kept talking.

**

It was nearly an hour before Mycroft was able to sit back and reach for the whiskey that Anthea had set on his desk. A moment later, she appeared in the doorway, a hopeful expression on her face. “Dr. Watson will get his wish,” he said.

“Your brother actually agreed to meet him?”

Mycroft smiled. “Oh, better than that. Sherlock has generously offered to host Watson for Xmas and the New Year.”

Anthea was not an easy woman to surprise [she had, after all, worked for Mycroft for a long time now] but she was obviously shocked by this news. “Sherlock agreed to that?”

“He did.”

“You are a miracle worker.” She gave him a pleased smile. “I will let Dr. Watson know.”

Alone, Mycroft slowly finished the whiskey. The argument with Sherlock had left him weary, but pleased. He did worry about his brother, constantly, because successful as he was in his career, Sherlock was alone far too much. He took no joy in anything but devising the byzantine puzzles that filled his mystery novels. Those stories detailed the adventures of his brilliant detective, who was known only as Holmes. The battle over the name had been legendary, but, in the end, both Mycroft and Mummy had given in. It seemed so important to the fragile, pale creature Sherlock had been in those first days out of rehab. His decision to retreat to the tiny cottage in Sussex and write mystery novels had been surprising, but it sounded safe.

Too safe, as it turned out.

It was time to shake things up a bit for Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft glanced at the photograph attached to the file on Dr. John Hamish Watson, still not sure what made him think that the quite ordinary looking ex-soldier might be just the one to unsettle his brother. And, in reality, he was not certain that this idea would work as he hoped. But it was worth the effort.

Hopefully, it would also be worth the promise he had made that this would be the last time he would play upon Sherlock’s grudging gratitude. Frankly, it was surprising that he’d managed to take advantage of it for this long.

Mummy would be pleased that he was trying.

Belatedly, it occurred to him that he had intended to mention the most recent report on the double agent Sherlock had exposed.  Its news was a bit unsettling. After managing to evade the surveillance put in place, while Mycroft’s people gathered intel on all of the traitor’s possible contacts in the government, Moran had dropped completely off the radar.

Logically, it seemed likely that Moran would stay as far away from England as possible. Still, Mycroft made a mental note to pass the word along to Sherlock the next time they spoke.

**

The back seat of the long black car had arrived to collect John from his bedsit was huge. Almost as big as the bedsit itself, he joked privately. There was champagne on ice and some fancy chocolate biscuits available. He decided on only one glass of the bubbly, because he did not want to be even a tiny bit tipsy when he met William Scott. Inside his battered travel bag were his treasured copies of all seven Holmes novels, which he hoped to get signed.

Frankly, John Watson was still in a state of shock.

He had not expected to ever even get a reply to his letter. At the very best, in his most optimistic daydreams, he had imagined perhaps meeting Scott for tea or a drink and getting to talk for a while. Getting the books signed.

There was no way he could have been prepared for the phone call from a woman with a lovely voice telling him that he had been invited out to Sussex for Christmas and the New Year. At first, he thought it had to be some kind of scam or joke. But now it was all coming true, even if he had not been absolutely convinced until the car pulled up to the kerb.

And so he found himself in a limo on Christmas Eve, sipping champagne, on his way to an adventure.

John giggled just a little. This was the most ridiculous thing he had ever done.

*

The cottage genuinely looked like something from the top of a candy box, all wood and stone and trailing vines. It was coming on for teatime as the car slowed and came to a stop by the front gate. The driver opened the door and bid John a pleasant evening, then was gone. John clutched his case in one hand and the hated cane in the other as he walked to the door. Instead of a knocker or a doorbell, there was a slightly rusted bell hanging on a post next to the door. John gave a tentative tug on the rope, then, impatient with his nerves, yanked it again, more firmly.

Just as he was starting again to think that it was all some massive, albeit rather cruel, practical joke, the door was jerked open. He’d had no idea what to expect, because there was never an author’s photo on any of the books. William Scott was a phantom.

When the door opened, John was stunned into silence. While he had not known what to expect of Scott, he had certainly not ever thought to see a man who looked just like the hero of the novels standing on the threshold of this cottage.

“You must be Doctor Watson,” Scott said and his voice was exactly had John had always imagined Holmes’ voice would sound. Like molten dark chocolate pouring over him.

Maybe, John thought, he should have skipped even that first glass of champagne. But at least he finally remembered to shift his cane and stick his hand out. “John, please,” he said.

They shook firmly. “Come in,” Scott said.

They walked through a tiny foyer into a cozy sitting room. A wood fire burned brightly and in one corner there was a massive old desk holding a computer, printer, and tottering piles of of paper and books. The mantel was crowded with an assortment of odd items, including a skull.

“Is that real?” John asked.

“An old friend,” Scott replied. “Well, I say friend…” He seemed to realise that John was still wearing his coat and holding his suitcase. “Let me show you the guest room. Nothing fancy, I’m afraid. I don’t have many visitors.” He opened a door and led John into a very small room furnished with only a bed, a wardrobe, and a chair. Then he gave a smile that was so fleeting John almost thought he had imagined it. “You’re actually the first guest.” He grew brisk. “Settle in. I’ll be…out here.” He gestured vaguely towards the rest of the cottage. Then he left the room, closing the door.

John just stood there for a moment, then gave himself a shake.

For god’s sake, Watson, he told himself firmly, get a grip. You survived medical school. You’ve been in combat. Surely you can face a simple conversation with William Scott. If only the man didn’t look so much like the description of his creation Holmes, because, honestly, John had spent a good bit of time thinking about Holmes. Fantasising it might even be said.

Finally he unpacked into the wardrobe, splashed some water into his face, and tried to smooth his hair down. At last, he felt ready and limped out of the little bedroom, looking for his host and finding him in the kitchen. Not actually doing anything in the kitchen, just standing with a certain awkwardness in the middle of the room, as if unsure what his next step should be. He really looked like a man who had never had a guest before, so perhaps what he’d said was true. John glanced around the rustic, well-appointed kitchen and saw the electric kettle sitting on the counter. “Shall I make some tea?” he asked.

Scott looked startled briefly, then nodded. “That should be my job. Shouldn’t it?”

John smiled. “I don’t mind. I like being useful.”

After a moment, Scott nodded and sat at the scrubbed wooden table, watching John. “You do like it, don’t you?” he said thoughtfully. At John’s glance, he clarified. “Being useful. Hence your career choices of doctor and soldier.”

John opened the tea canister and took out two sachets of Earl Grey. “Cups?”

Scott nodded towards one of the cupboards.

No one spoke again until the tea was made and milk fetched from the fridge. Scott seemed oddly delighted to see the milk.  Then John sat at the table. “Well, Mr. Scott,” he said, “my career choices have changed. Not a soldier anymore and barely a doctor.”

“Don’t call me Mr. Scott.”

“All right…William, then.”

Scott---William?---frowned a little, but did not say anything.

John, not one for idle chitchat, kept silent as well. They drank the tea and the silence was comfortable.

*

The entire evening passed with that same sense of comfort. There was no sign of the holiday anywhere in the cottage, but eventually William peered into the refrigerator, looking vaguely interested as to what might be found there. Had he not shopped for the food himself?

At any rate, a meal that only needed popping into the oven emerged and it was very good---shepherd’s pie, topped with fluffy mash, and green beans. As they ate [well, mostly John did the eating, as it was a nice change from beans on toast consumed in his bedsit, while William pushed food around and only swallowing a few bites] their conversation ranged over a number of topics.

It was John who finally brought up the subject of William’s books. “I really wanted to thank you,” he said. “Reading your books has helped me so much.” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “Actually, they kept me sane.”

“Really?” William looked bemused at that. He studied John. “Your limp isn’t real.”

John felt his face flush. “Well, it is psychosomatic. But it still hurts.”

“I’m sorry if I offended you.” The apology seemed sincere, but his need statement was equally tactless.  “Perhaps you need a new therapist.”

John opened his mouth, but then closed it again without speaking.

If he had seemed only vaguely interested in the meal itself, William displayed much more enthusiasm over the sticky pudding with custard. He finished every bite with an almost childlike enthusiasm. Then, also like a child, he sat and watched John clean up and load the dishwasher.

Over another cup of tea, John couldn’t help the yawn. He swallowed the rest of the Earl Grey and stood. “I best head for bed.” Then he paused. “William, I want to thank you for this. It is so much more generous than anyone could have expected. Please don’t let me interrupt your life or work any more than I must.” He smiled and left the kitchen.

**

Sherlock pulled his chair closer to the large window and sat to watch the snow outside. The storm had moved in quickly and already the swirling flakes obscured everything beyond the cottage. He was accustomed to isolation, of course, and never bothered by it. But there was a newer feeling creeping over him on this Christmas Eve, an entirely unexpected feeling that seemed to be a sense of quiet peace. As he contemplated the snow, Sherlock found himself listening to the small, homely sounds of another person preparing for bed just down the corridor. Specifically of John Watson getting himself ready to retire for the night. He brushed his teeth, used the toilet, washed. There was the soft tap-tap of the cane as he returned to the guest room, followed by the rustle of clothing as he changed into pyjamas. Finally came the sound of a body settling into the mattress and the clicking off of the lamp.

And so Sherlock sat as the night grew later and stormier, trying to understand why the very presence of the other man sleeping nearby was somehow pleasant. He could come to no conclusions on the subject, but was surprisingly unperturbed by that failure.  From the moment he’d opened the door and found John Watson standing there, his mind had tried to decipher why he was so fascinated by the ex-soldier with a phony limp and slightly greying blond hair. He liked to think that it was more than simple pleasure at being so blatantly admired.

It was only a couple of hours before dawn when he finally stood, closed the curtains to block out the still raging storm, and went to bed. He refused to allow his mind to dwell upon the realisation that he was very much looking forward to seeing his houseguest in the morning.

**

John slept so well that he was amazed to awaken and find that it was gone nine on Christmas morning. Judging by the sounds coming from the other bedroom, he realised that William was still sleeping. He couldn’t help a small smile, imagining the elegant man’s reaction to being told that he was clearly a prodigious snorer.

There was still no sign of William by the time John had showered and dressed in a neatly creased pair of khaki trousers, a white shirt, and a colourful holiday jumper. He felt very festive as he went into the kitchen. Christmas morning seemed to call for a special breakfast, so he made himself quite at home and gathered the makings for a meal. Someone had stocked the kitchen very well, although he now rather doubted that it had been William.

But he was trying not to think too much about his host, for various reasons, and so he concentrated on remembering how his Gran used to make eggy bread.

It wasn’t until he pulled the curtains open that he saw the snow, nearly a meter at least, with more still coming down. Hopefully his company would still be welcomed y his host, as it seemed unlikely he was could go anywhere very soon.

By the time William appeared, still in pyjama trousers, worn teeshirt, and a silk dressing gown, the eggy mix was ready, far too many bacon rashers were sizzling away and the bread was neatly sliced. William ran a hand through his already rather delightfully mussed curls. “Five minutes?” he asked in a raspy morning voice, not seeming at all disgruntled that someone else had taken over his kitchen.

“Perfect,” John said, beaming a smile at him.

While the slices of bread bubbled on the griddle, John took a moment to hurry into the bedroom and retrieve a small gaily wrapped package, which he set on the table at William’s spot. It had seemed only polite to bring a gift to the man who was hosting him for the holidays. John had scoured the bookshops on Charing Cross and beyond for days before finding what he thought would suit perfectly. He did not allow himself to be nervous about the choice now. Likewise, he refused to think about the fact that the money he had paid for it meant a lot more beans on toast in his immediate future.

He was plating the food when William returned, dressed now in a perfectly tailored black suit and a deep aubergine shirt. “Good morning, John,” he said, his normal dark chocolate voice returned. He surveyed the riotous colours John was wearing. “I must apologise for the lack of a festive jumper, but I have done the best I could.”

“Git,” John said. “Sit down. I hope you will actually eat some of this food, after all my work preparing it.”

Maybe because it was a holiday or the fact that someone else had made the meal, but, William quite willingly began to eat. His eyes were on the package, however. “”What’s that?” he asked once his mouth was free of eggy bread and bacon.

“That is a Christmas gift,” John replied lightly. “I believe it is traditional.”

William looked at him, blinking rapidly. “Oh. Of course…I…sorry, I---“

John laughed. “Please, William, you have given me the most wonderful gift in the world just by having me here. Otherwise, I would be having pot noodles alone in my bedsit.”

They ate in silence for a few moments, although John imagined that he could see a thousand thoughts running through William’s mind. Not that he had the least idea about what any of those thoughts might be.  As he cleared the plates and poured more tea, he said, “Well, you ought to open it.”

William was not, it seemed, a ripper. He very carefully pulled at the sellotape, managing not to tear the paper and when he saw what was inside, his eyes widened as his fingers gently caressed the soft parchment cover of the very old Greek pharmacological dictionary. “John,” he said.

“Do you like it?” John asked, knowing he sounded eager and not much caring. “I thought that since you write about poisons and the like a lot, it might be of some interest.”

“I…yes, John, it is a perfectly wonderful gift and much more than I deserve.”

John leaned forward over the table. “William, I wanted you to know how much your books have meant to me, that’s all. And to thank you for allowing me to come here.”

 

Their eyes met and held. John felt something stir inside his chest, something that he wanted very much to examine closely, but not at present.

After a moment, William stood and walked into the other room. John followed, taking a seat on the battered leather divan in front of the fire. William stood at the window, staring out at the white landscape. Finally, after several minutes, he took a deep breath. “John,” he said slowly, “as it happens, I do have a gift for you.” He held up a hand to stop John from replying. “The gift of truth is what I am offering.”

Now John was puzzled, but he kept silent.

“William Scott is not my name. Well, not my entire name.”

“Okay,” John said. Authors frequently used pen names; he knew that much.

“I am actually William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“Holmes? Like the hero in your novels?”

The sound William made was not quite a laugh. “Yes, but believe me when I say that the name is all I share with the character. Before I started this life, everyone called me Sherlock.”

“Sherlock.” John tested the name in his mouth. “I like it.”

“Do you?” Sherlock [it fit him, it really did] came and sat beside him. He just looked at John for a long moment and then gave a tiny nod, as if a decision had been reached. “May I tell you a story, John?”

“Of course.”

“It is a sorry tale that only three people in the world know the whole of. And it shows me in a very bad light indeed.”

John frowned, as if bewildered. “Why do you want to tell me?”

Sherlock smiled at him. “I don’t want to tell you, John, believe me. But I very much want you to know.”

“All right.”

John settled in to listen and Sherlock started to talk.

*

When he finally seemed to run out of the words with which to explain what had happened a decade ago, Sherlock stood, apparently unwilling or unable to look at John’s face, and went into his bedroom. He did not shut the door, however, which seemed significant in some way that John was not sure he understood. Rather than try to puzzle it out, he did what came naturally at such moments. He made tea.

John sat alone in the kitchen and drank the first cup, thinking very hard about the rest of his life and a man he just met. And tried to understand how those two separate things now seemed inextricably joined. Possibly his therapist would classify this as a symptom of the PTSD she always hinted that he might have. While that might have been true, John decided that he didn't care much. If at all.   He might well be on a high wire with no net below, but John still felt as if he were going to reach the other side safely.  At last, with careful deliberation, he made two more cups of tea and carried them to the doorway of Sherlock’s room. “May I come in?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” was the immediate reply from where Sherlock was sitting on the foot of the bed.

“I made tea,” he announced, stepping into the room.

Sherlock [that now seemed the only name to use for him] almost smiled. “Of course you did. Already I understand that, as an immutable law of the universe, John Watson makes the tea.”

He set both cups down on the bedside table. “You make it sound like a job qualification.”

“No. Just a pleasant attribute.” Sherlock gestured towards the bed. “Sit.”

John sat and they each lifted a cup.

“Thank you,” John said finally. “For trusting me enough to tell me that.”

“I have no idea why I did,” Sherlock said and he did sound puzzled. “But it seemed pointless not to. You had to know the truth about me. In case you wanted to run away as quickly as possible.”

“Still here.”

“Which makes you an idiot, no doubt.”

“Probably.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It also seemed important. This seems important.”

John was not sure what Sherlock meant by ‘this’, but he didn’t ask. “The storm is over,” he said instead. “I even heard what sounded like a snowmobile earlier, so people are getting out.”

“Christmas is exhausting.” Sherlock set his empty cup back onto the table, then scooted to the head of the bed and stretched out.

“A Christmas nap is traditional,” John said. “Although not usually until after an enormous lunch and the Queen’s speech.”

“We’re rebels,” Sherlock pointed out, gesturing to the other half of the bed.

After a moment, John moved to stretch out next to him. They were not quite touching.

“I am sorry that William Scott is not the person you expected him to be,” Sherlock said softly.

John shook his head. “Don’t say that. We all have things in our past…” He mustered a smile. “Anyway, I like Sherlock Holmes just as he is.”

“Do you? How odd. People don’t usually say that.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

After a moment, they shared a soft laugh.

“Will you stay?” Sherlock asked, not specifying whether he meant in the bed, in the cottage, or in his life.

“For as long as you like,” John replied, meaning all of the above.

*

John had not really intended to actually fall asleep, so waking up was a bit of a surprise. Almost as surprising as the fact that apparently he had slept deeply with absolutely no nightmares. That was rare these days. He could remember listening to the soft inhalations and exhalations of Sherlock’s breathing so near and how restful it had been.

Now, he rolled over and realised that he was alone in the bed.

Which was fine. There was no obligation for Sherlock Holmes to stay in bed with him and there was no reason for John to feel even a tiny bit disappointed. He rolled out of the bed, straightened his clothes, smoothed his hair, and went into the sitting room.

Where there was no Sherlock either. There was, however, a note.

//Out of logs for the fire. Fetching some from the barn. Back in five. SH//

There was no way of knowing how long ago Sherlock had left, but he should be back in no more than five minutes. So John decided to do what was apparently his lot in life and make tea while waiting. And to think about the possibility of making another meal that Sherlock might consent to eat at least a little of. Five minutes passed. Then ten. At twenty minutes, John poured the cold tea down the drain. He retrieved his coat and found a pair of wellies that would serve.

For a reason he would never be able to explain, but would forever be grateful for, John went to his suitcase and took out the military weapon that he found himself carrying much more often than he should have done. Which was never, of course, technically speaking. But he had been to war and knew that the world was a dangerous place. He tucked the gun into his coat pocket and left the cottage.

It was not difficult to follow Sherlock’s path, although no doubt the long-legged git had moved through the snow much more easily than John could. As he approached the tidy barn, John behaved as if it were a hut in Afghanistan that might have housed either an innocent family having dinner or a fanatic strapped into an explosive vest.

Instead of approaching the door directly, he cut to the right and it was then that he saw the snowmobile parked out of sight behind the barn.

He tried to be rational. There could be any number of explanations as to why this snowmobile had come out of the woods and parked here. Maybe a neighbour had come to pay a Christmas visit. But as little as he actually knew about Sherlock Holmes, he did feel fairly certain that the neighbours did not often come calling. Especially not to have a chat in the barn in on Christmas Day.

John saw a small window on the back of the barn and carefully approached to peer inside. What he saw made him reach immediately for the weapon in his pocket. Sherlock, both hands bound behind him, was kneeling on the barn floor, a posture that was all too familiar to John.

A slender figure dressed all in black was standing behind Sherlock, talking, although John could not hear the words. All he cared about anyway was the gun that was pressed to the back of Sherlock’s head.

This was not the first time John had been in this exact situation and he knew how to read the signs. Knew when the person holding the gun had run out of words to say. Knew when the posture shifted just slightly. And, once upon a time, John had enjoyed a reputation for being able to see the precise moment the finger on a trigger would start to tighten.

In one smooth movement, he aimed and fired through the window. The assassin dropped instantly, dead before hitting the floor.  Sherlock’s head whipped around and their eyes met through the shattered glass.

John moved, kicking snow up as he went, and then bursting into the barn. He went directly to Sherlock, dropping to crouch in front of him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded, but didn’t say anything.

John leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. Then he stood, moving to untie the rope holding Sherlock’s arms. As he worked at the knot, he glanced down at the body on the ground. “Who the hell was she?” he asked.

The rope gave way and Sherlock moved his arms to restore the circulation. “Her name was Mary Moran. She was a double agent who used to work for my brother. I uncovered her secret life and she wanted revenge.” Sherlock stepped forward and wrapped his arms around John, pulling him close. “You saved my life,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

The adrenalin boast had faded now and John felt his body sag. “I couldn’t lose you,” he said. “Not when I just found you.”

“I didn’t know I was lost until you found me,” Sherlock said. “You don’t have your cane,” he added.

John looked down at his leg.  “Damn,” he said and then he shrugged.  “Guess you cured me.”

They were silent for a few moments.

“I have to call my bloody brother,” Sherlock said finally. “He’ll send a cleaning crew.”

“Am I going to be in trouble?”

Sherlock just snorted.

*

John was not going to be in any trouble.

Sherlock held a long and heated telephone conversation with his brother, while John tried not to listen and made tea, drank it, and made more. Finally Sherlock came into the kitchen and joined him at the table. “Are you all right?” he asked.

John shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“You did just kill a woman.”

“Not a very nice woman.”

“True,” Sherlock agreed. “In fact, a perfectly horrid woman. Mycroft says thank you, by the way. We are instructed to ignore a helicopter which will be arriving soon.”

John gave a harsh laugh. “Actually, I am quite skilled at ignoring helicopters.”

There was another pause. “So,” Sherlock said finally. He reached across the table and took John’s hand. “Where do we go from here?”

"Where do you want to go?"

An expression of what might have been confusion crossed Sherlock's face and then was gone again. "Would it be premature to suggest my bed?"

John grinned at him. "Since you have been seducing me ever since I arrived, it would not be premature at all."

"Have I been doing that?" The confusion was back. "I have no idea how."

"Just by being you." It took John a moment to understand that Sherlock was genuinely unsure of himself. Which was amazing, really. He stood, pulling Sherlock up with him. "Come on," he said and lead the way back into the bedroom.

Still dressed, they stretched out on the bed as they had before, but closer this time. John used one finger to trace Sherlock's profile. "Actually," he said in a conversational tone, "you started seducing me a long time ago, the first time I picked up one of your books."

"Those are fairy tales, John."

"Oh, I know that. But at the heart of them, at the heart of Holmes, there is you."

"I have never been sure I have any heart at all, John." Sherlock shifted slightly and kissed John's forehead lightly. "But if I do, it belongs to you. If you want it."

John had to swallow before he could speak.  “I want it.  I just killed to protect it.  My heart is yours, as well.”

Then there were no more words. They undressed one another slowly, with no urgency, but with a sense of inevitability, as if each of them had been waiting for the other without even knowing it. When Sherlock was naked and stretched out beneath him, John had to pause just for a moment. "You are so lovely," he whispered, delighting in the faint rosy flush that crept down the alabaster flesh.

"John," Sherlock breathed.

It was not the time for anything complicated. John knew that they would learn one another, each of them would learn the other's body and how the two of them could come together. But for now, he thought simple would be best and there was nothing simpler than just the friction of two bodies rubbing together. A hand here, a tongue there, lips pressed to pulse points. And the soft words, nonsense really, murmured into ears and necks.

Sherlock came first, with a long sigh, fingers scrabbling for a better hold on John's sweaty body, and it was the sight of his head thrown back, that endless neck and the look of surprised delight in those alien eyes that sent John over the edge. He swore.

Afterwards, they lay tangled together and listened to the arrival of the helicopter. It only took about ten minutes and then they heard the sound of its departure.

"My brother's people are nothing if not efficient," Sherlock said drily, one large hand still stroking John.

John just smiled faintly, rolled so that his face was pressed into Sherlock's neck and fell asleep.

 

**

It was just 0900 on 2 January when Sherlock heard the sound of a car pulling up in front of the cottage. He frowned and then rolled out of the bed without wakening John, who was rather amazing in his ability to sleep. Maybe it was because he’d been a soldier.  Or was a doctor.

After pulling on his soft pyjama trousers and dressing gown, he went into the front hall, opening the door just as Mycroft was lifting his ridiculous brolly to knock. "What do you want?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, this is day arranged for Mr. Watson to return to London and I thought it would be the right thing for me to escort him personally. He did save my only brother's life, after all."

Sherlock mentally kicked himself for not sending a message and thus avoiding this encounter. "John will not be returning to London," he said crisply. "Tomorrow he is interviewing at a local surgery for a position." He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. "You can be useful. Please arrange for all of his things to be collected and delivered here."

Mycroft just looked at him for a moment. "All right," was what he said in response.

Now Sherlock frowned at him. “Is that all?  No surprise?  No shock that I have found someone who can actually tolerate me?"

Mycroft was already turning back towards the waiting limo. Then he paused, not quite smiling.  "Actually, I found him," was all he said. Then he tipped his head at Sherlock and left.

"Pompous git," Sherlock muttered, watching as the car glided away.

When the limo had vanished down the lane, he shut the door and returned to the bedroom. Shedding the trousers and dressing gown, he slid back into the warm bed and, as easily as if he had been doing it for years, wrapped himself around John Watson, who just sighed lightly and snuggled closer.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes smiled.

-fini-

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there is a long AU and its title is The Very Eyes of Me. The plan is to start posting by year's end. So if you fancy a little Sherlock and John in 1920's Paris, look out for it.


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